I swing around, my own knife raised. Or that is the plan, but he’s too close for a proper “swing,” and instead, I find myself pressed against the wall with his knife at my throat.

My word, he has gorgeous eyes.

That is not what I should be thinking, and yet, it is all I am thinking as I stare up into gold-flecked brown eyes ringed with enviable lashes.

“You have the most beautiful eyes,” I say.

He blinks and pulls back. “What?”

I drop my gaze. “I am sorry, sir. That was very forward of me, but I could not help notice—”

I shove him, hard. As he staggers back, I dart to the side. He lunges to grab me, but I meet the attack with a push hard enough to send him flying backward over a footstool. His knife clatters to the floor, and I launch myself on him like a cat, landing on his chest, my own blade flying to his throat.

I tense, ready for him to throw me off. Instead, he only says, “I suppose I deserve this.”

I’d heard his voice earlier, but I’d been too worried about my predicament to really hear it. Now that I do, it’s beautiful, a light contralto with a French accent, made even more melodious by a wry lilt to the words.

“Yes, you do deserve it,” I say. “Now—”

He bucks under me, legs flying up. I brace myself and stay where I am.

“I used a distraction trick on you moments ago,” I say. “Do you really think I’d fall for one myself?”

He sighs and thumps his head back to the floor. “All right. You have bested me, fair maiden. There is a little money in my jacket pocket, which I left in the kitchen. It is yours.”

I propel myself up, my free hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. I dance away with it in my hand.

He only sighs and shakes his head as he rises. “Put that down, child.”

“Child?” I sputter. “We are of an age.”

“Hardly,” he says. “I am six-and-twenty.”

“As am I.”

He smiles. “Does anyone actually believe such a story, child? You cannot be more than eighteen. Now put down that sword, or I shall be forced to take it from you.”

I raise the weapon, and his eyes harden.

“Do not play this game, little one,” he says as he comes toward me. “A sword is a dangerous weapon that requires years of training, and you will injure yourself if you attempt to use it.”

I execute a perfect lunge and thrust.

He stops in his tracks. “My mistake.”

“Evidently.” I lift my chin. “I am not a child. I am Miranda Hastings, friend to the gentleman who owns this house.”

“You mean Lord Thorne? The man whom I call friend? The man whose house you are burgling?”

“Burgling?” I squawk. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

He eyes my dress. “I am not certain. Your dress does seem unnecessarily ostentatious, whatever your intent.”